


Bound, Unwound, Wild and Wanton

by wtvoc



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Angst, Finale spoilers, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-08
Updated: 2015-05-08
Packaged: 2018-03-29 13:26:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3897988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wtvoc/pseuds/wtvoc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With his memory of before restored, Killian goes in search of Emma. What he finds fills him with despair and self-loathing as he tries to bring her back to him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bound, Unwound, Wild and Wanton

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bemusedbicycle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bemusedbicycle/gifts).



> if you're remaining spoiler free for the finale, maybe don't read this. if you're not, and you like your smut with a heaping helping of angst, then hello. how are ya.

Killian Jones never thought to see the day when he would gaze upon the face of Emma Swan and feel both remorse and despair. 

“Love, you don't know what you ask of me.” 

“I can assure you, Captain,” she said, taking a step closer to him, her voice far calmer than it had been only moments before. “I do.” Emma jolted a bit and a familiar look of vexation passed over her face. She looked down at her wrist, still shackled to the boards, and sighed heavily, as though she'd forgotten it was there. She had been bound and chained aboard the Jolly Roger for days now, and each day he'd visited her, trying to determine his next course of action. 

The aching weeks of searching, of stumbling about, of wheeling and dealing and stealing and doing everything, absolutely everything Killian Jones could think to find his savior nearly proved his undoing. Then he'd actually succeeded, surprising even himself when he finally found her in the middle of a nightmare. Henry's dire warning that they were the only ones who could save everyone, who could fix the mess that the author had written, had spurred Killian into action once his memory of the other time had returned. 

Only now that he'd finally found Emma, he almost wished he hadn't. He could remember quite vividly the last time he'd seen her, tears streaking both their faces as she kissed him goodbye, the memory of their one and only night together reflected from her eyes to his. How it had been nothing like he'd imagined; not furious, not over too quickly, but sweet. Slow. A true coupling, two people touching as though they'd been at it for ages yet full of the wonder in discovering something new, something beautiful; something wondrous, indeed. And then the next thing he knew she was ripped from him, the blood of a thousand years' worth of misdeeds tainting the Dark One's blade, daring to touch her, making her think she was the only one who could save them all, not caring that she had saved him, not caring that he was quietly falling apart. 

He was only put back together with that first terrible glimpse of her face, terrible not because she did not recognize him but because her expression was a practiced sort of coldness—a face that did not know love. He knew why, of course; what kind of pirate would he be if he hadn't stolen into the Enchanted Forest and plundered all the information possible? Emma, daughter of the Evil Queen Snow White, bound and chained and imprisoned for years, for her magic was a terrible thing to behold. The Queen wanted to use her magic for her own means, and Emma was less than cooperative (he had to suppress the grin of pride that threatened when he found out that particular piece of knowledge), so bound and locked away she'd been. Killian had to sell his soul (literally, but what did it matter) to Pan (of _course_ that demon was back in the rewritten version of things) to obtain the leather magic bands that bound Emma from enchanting him in the bad way, but he still had to physically restrain her, for she attacked him on sight every time. He hated himself for it but he would hate himself more were she to do an injury to herself. He no longer cared what happened to his own self. 

He'd finally grown so frustrated that he simply left the hold, vowing he would get a grip on himself before returning, but he was utterly incapable of not looking at her when she was so close, so daily the torture went: he would go down there, far at sea so as not to affect any innocents should things go awry. He would bring her food, and he would look at her. At the way she'd changed. Her eyes held sparks, he was sure of it, for he felt electric rage tickling along his spine each time he approached—rage and lust, of that he was certain. Perhaps her body remembered something of him, her magic responding to his proximity. At least he hoped so, but then memories of their one time together would enter his mind and he had to dash them away. That lovely and sweet night would forever remain etched in his mind, even if she never looked upon him with favor again. Nothing—not some dastardly author, not a new set of memories, nor some cowardly crocodile— could ever take that from him. 

He only wished he could give that to her as well. She who was now looking at him with that mix of deep-seated suspicion and deeper arousal. 

“I've always wanted to bed a pirate.” 

He wanted to look away from her, to ignore the way her eyes raked over him in a perfunctory way, like she had never taken the time to regard him, had never watched him up close or gazed at him from afar. He hated being near her. He hated that he'd never felt so far from her. And he hated himself for not saving her from this fate in the first place. 

He attempted to make light of the pain induced by her coldly provocative voice. “I'd think the opportunities to seduce anyone would be limited what with your imprisonment, your highness.” 

“You'd be surprised how convincing I can be to my captors,” she retorted. A corner of her mouth curled, her lips cracked and dry. He wished to soothe them and then soothe the lines in her brow, all of them the marks of a woman chained to her false destiny along with the irons clapped about her wrist. He suddenly could not take it anymore, coming toward her for the first time since bringing her aboard the Jolly. She started at his approach, taking a wary step backward as she eyed him, eyed his hook. He raised it and his hand, showing that he meant her no harm. He had to remind himself that this was not his Emma, the woman he loved and who maybe, possibly might have one day loved him back. This was a wounded woman, a princess betrayed since birth, her fate penned by the whimsy of a piece of shite author with a mischievous quill. 

Slowly he reached out, his fingers clasping the heavy chain holding her captive. She jerked her arm, hissing while backing away, and his heart nearly broke for himself and herself in that moment. _How have we gotten here, love_ , he thought with despair as he held firmly to the chain. _Have you not suffered enough? How did I allow this to happen? What can I do? What the hell am I doing, even now?_

“What the hell are you doing?” she said through clenched teeth, appearing for all the world as if she were going to bite him, a thing he'd thought of fancifully in their past that only filled him with anger now, anger at the people who had done this to her, she the least deserving of such a fate. And anger at himself, always anger at himself. 

“I thought I'd give your wrist a chance to heal,” he said, injecting a false cheer he simply did not feel. She cocked her head at that, her expression thoughtful as she watched him reach into his pocket for the key. He unlocked the clamp and opened it, wondering what would be her reaction, whether she would strike at him and make a run for it. 

She did not. It wasn't much, but it was something. He breathed deeply, trying to quell the pulse pounding in his veins, then he decided to let it go. He was used to the way this woman made his heart race, anyway. 

For lack of any better action, he reached out with his hook and circled her wrist with it, ignoring the way she flinched at the touch of the cool metal on her chafed flesh. He then grasped her wrist just below the cuff and attempted to soothe it and her, tutting at the redness he saw there. He rubbed circles over her skin with his thumb, fascinated by the way her body seemed to relax fractionally with his touch. 

“What are you doing,” she whispered, and when he looked up, his heart was nearly torn asunder. Her eyes were almost like those of the Emma from before, two soft storms of colors, the sea near the coast when a ship was nearing home. He wondered if in this version of Emma whether anyone had ever touched her gently like this. Likely not, he surmised. 

Ignoring her question, he merely gazed into her eyes, relishing the moment, his body thrilling with the soft contact. He knew she could turn on him quickly but he could not bring herself to keep her restrained anymore. The worst of her temper seemed to have abated, so while he continued to enjoy the touch of her wrist beneath his gentle fingertips, he kept his attention on her body language, waiting for tension in her muscles that might presage the return of her formerly suspicious and angry stance. 

It did not occur, however; no, she seemed to practically melt under his ministrations, her shoulders drooping slightly, her neck loose as she turned her head to look at him. The thoughtful but wary expression returned to her face as her eyes raked over him, one eyebrow cocking when he met her gaze directly. The colors of her irises darkened imperceptibly and he inhaled deeply before he could stay his own lungs. His body recognized that particular shade of green and the way her pupils widened fractionally; this was a determined Emma, the same one who'd given in to her own impulses to kiss a pirate back in Neverland, the one who'd taken a brave leap forward and asked a man to dinner. Then he remembered what she'd asked him the moment he'd walked in just now, and his mouth went dry. 

“You never answered me, Captain,” she said. He could not answer, did not think he had an answer, or rather—he had two. She tilted her chin in defiance, and it nearly rendered him undone, the rejection he read on her face at his continued silence. “Are you going to ravish me or not?” 

As he contemplated the two answers floating about in his mind, well aware that she awaited his answer, he paused to consider what she was thinking by making such a request of him. Of course he wanted to do that, of course—this was Emma, even if it was not his Emma. But therein lay his confusion; he did not wish to take her, willing or no. Not like this. 

“No, lass,” he said, careful to keep his voice even. She seemed bemused at this, her brow crinkling as she tried to discern what he was about. He wished he knew himself. For once in his overlong life, Killian had no idea what was his next course of action. When he found out where Emma was being held he had acted without forethought, overpowering the laughable guards and telling her very little, merely asking if she wished to come with him; she had simply nodded, seeming very willing to escape with a man she'd never met. He told himself at the time that it was their old mutual trust, but he was no longer sure of that. And that was something Killian had forgotten—feeling unsure of his standing with Emma Swan—but now that he was, once again, in an uncertain situation with the one he loved more than he ever thought possible, his uncertainty returned with full force. 

“Then you'll be wanting to use my magic, I suppose,” she said softly. He looked down and noticed she was speaking to his shoulder, her face so close he could discern every detail of her skin, all of the freckles and scars the same as ever they had been. Her hair still gleamed with the luster of a tarnished crown, even if it was messy and wild, much like the morning she'd awakened in his arms, blinking and smiling and pulling him back down to her, her mouth laughing into his as he poked her in the ribs just to feel her body tremor against his with happiness. That was it, he realized. That was what was missing from this Emma. Happiness. 

“No, highness. I don't want to use your magic. I suppose that wouldn't turn out well for me,” he murmured. He was still holding her wrist gently and he did not wish to let her go, but there was no real reason to continue touching her, other than his own desires. He let go and took a step back even though every nerve in his body screamed at him to take her in his arms, to _make_ her remember, to touch her and let her touch him, to _will_ her to remember him. 

He knew that wasn't possible. Not in this rewritten lie that was now their life. 

“My parents won't pay ransom, I'll have you know,” she said with that defiant tilt of her pugnacious chin. “I suspect they'll feel relief to be rid of me.” And oh, his heart. Would she feel abandoned in every version of her? He hoped not. Or, if she did, he only hoped he would be there to make sure she knew that not _everyone_ left her. 

“Eat, Princess Emma,” he told her gently, laying down a tray of food before turning around and going above deck. He did not notice how her eyes followed after him, confusion and questions swirling through her, nearly as strong as the overwhelming sensation she had to ask him to stay. 

The following day he brought her above deck, and it was a smug sort of satisfaction that overtook him when she marveled that there was no crew, just him. _She's enchanted_ , Emma said with wonder, her fingers caressing the worn and polished wood. _You're enchanting_ , his mind told her. He wished to spend the day with her, learning about the life she led, but the bright rays of the sun and the brisk snap of the sails seemed to overwhelm her senses, so when she ran back down the stairs, he could have smacked himself for not remembering that this woman had spent the last few years imprisoned in a tower; she was unused to being out of doors. When he went to apologize for not realizing it, he was faced with something he had seen only rarely: the utter rage of a woman unhinged. 

“You,” she hissed as he entered the hold. “What do you want from me?” 

_Everything_ , he screamed in silence. 

“Nothing,” he said instead. 

“Well, forgive me if I don't believe you,” she said. “All my life, people have wanted things from me. I've been surrounded by people and their demands. 'Be a good girl, Emma. Be a biddable daughter.' Then when my magic made an appearance it was 'do my chores for me, Emma.' 'Make that boy pay, Emma.' 'Make our enemies disappear forever, Emma.' Well, I'm tired of everyone demanding I save them. It's time for me to get what _I_ want.” She stepped closer to him, and he questioned his own wisdom in allowing her free reign of the ship. She raised her hand to her wrist and began subconsciously rubbing there. He wondered if she was feeling the ghostly pangs of her shackles but when he raised his gaze and braced himself to once again see that ancient pain in her eyes, he was arrested by the look that was there in its stead—appraisal turning to awareness. She licked her lips and he had to suppress a groan, the slight sound soft and scratching his throat. 

“I didn't think pirates were so pretty,” she taunted. He knew she was frustrated and that it often manifested as sarcasm, but this Emma's mockery was painful in that it was so pained, so forced. She stepped closer and he had to scramble to school his thoughts, for it was getting harder and harder each day to be near her without being with her. 

“Don't,” he said, his voice quiet but lacking any true emotion. 

“Don't what, _Captain Hook_?” she purred, her voice provocative yet mocking. He knew he winced slightly at the moniker and attempted to ignore the light of triumph in her eyes when she saw it. She reached out and grasped the offending thing, pinching it between her fingers suggestively. “I'd heard tales of the infamous pirate captain with only one hand, but none of them said how nice you were to look at. Is that why you're so good, Captain? Do your beautiful eyes and your rakish smile charm the jewels and corsets right off of the ladies of all the realms?” 

He did not respond but felt his jaw tighten as she tried to provoke him. Days now and he still had no idea how to bring his Emma back; his frustration was starting to crack the walls he'd tried to erect. He knew it would be thus from the start; he knew she would be near unrecognizable except for perhaps her consistent mistrust in everyone and everything. What he didn't know was that he would no longer be able to feign indifference, not to her and especially not to himself. 

“I heard it was because of a woman,” she continued, and he noted with some surprise that she was much closer. Her entire demeanor had shifted, and he had to wonder if this was a tactic she'd tried on her captors in the past—seduction. Her eyes were large and round and full of wicked promise, and there was a knowing slant to her mouth that he'd only seen on exactly one occasion. Both then and now, she'd been very obvious in her intent but unlike then, this Emma was merely toying with him. He shoved down his despair at her situation and vowed to kill the man responsible for doing this to her. He took a step back, but she reached out and pressed the tip of her finger to the cold metal of his hook once again. 

“Is that true, then?” she asked, her voice losing the pretense. She shifted her gaze down to where her finger touched his hook and a small furrow appeared between her brows. “No one would ever lose anything like that for me,” she said softly, almost as if to herself. She shook her head fiercely and once again looked to his face, and when she took on the look of practiced seduction once more he wanted to grab her and shake her and ask where the hell she was, why couldn't he make her return? 

Instead, he cleared his throat and swore on all the gods in all the realms that he would find a way to get her back, even if he had to go to hell to do so. “Aye, love. 'Tis true.” He backed away and turned to leave, but he stopped at the ladder and looked at a fixed point over his shoulder. “You're wrong, you know.” He paused and waited to see what she'd say, not wanting to look upon her with his next words, for he feared she would no longer be able to read the truth of him, and his heart would break if she did not believe what he was about to say, for it was the truest thing he thought he would ever tell her. 

“I am certain that there is a man out there who would not only lose anything for you, but he'd give all he ever had and everything he would ever get just to make sure you were well.” 

He left without another word. 

xxxx 

“You still haven't told me what you want with me,” she said conversationally. He'd invited her up to dine, and if he turned his head just right, he could pretend that they were back in Storybrooke Harbor aboard the Jolly, enjoying cold sandwiches from Granny's. 

“Is it so hard to think that a pirate merely seized an opportunity to have a princess on his ship?” he said lightly. 

“You don't strike me as a stupid man, Captain.” Her voice was flat as she shifted next to him. When he looked over he was startled to find her so close. It seemed like she was still intent on seduction, but her movements seemed less mechanical; either that, or he was simply projecting his own desires on her. “Everyone knows I'm dangerous and not worth the effort. Why, my magic has been known to decimate entire villages, and all because I had a bad day. So, what makes you think you can control that?” 

“Who said I wish to control it?” he retorted, trying not to sound irritable while pushing down his anger at her narrative. He looked over and met her eye, something he'd been avoiding for a while now. Summoning up all the honesty he could muster, his gaze did not falter as he said, “I wish you no ill, Emma. Nor do I want to use you or your magic.” 

And oh, triumph. Her eyes widened at that; whether it was that her superpower was working just fine or his use of her name he did not know, but either way, he'd take it. 

But just as quickly the wild look in her eye returned and her brow darkened on a frown. 

“Everyone wants something from me,” she muttered, and he could not deny that. 

“Maybe I just want you,” he said softly, but she wasn't having it. 

“You don't know me.” 

“Aye, lass. I know you better than you know yourself.” Her head turned to him sharply at that, her eyes studying his face. Did she remember? 

Emma opened her mouth to speak, and he almost crowed at the expression on her face. She looked so much like his Emma that were it not for the dress she wore, he'd think it all a particularly bad dream. 

But before she could say anything, something in his mind sparked, his old unerring instinct for the threat of danger, and he snapped his head up. Half a moment later a shot rang out, and he realized that someone was in pursuit. 

xxxx 

He hated that it would end thus, but if he went to his ultimate reward with Emma at his side, so be it. There wasn't a more fitting ending for Killian Jones than dying while trying to save his love. Perhaps it wasn't the ending he would have wished for, but it wasn't an unhappy one. 

It took a moment for him to register her words as he was preparing the ship's weaponry. 

“You have to take these off.” Her voice was full of frustration as she followed him, and when he turned to face her it was to see her tugging at the cuffs on her wrists. She looked up at him and while her expression was still untamed, still as a caged and wounded animal ready to pounce, there was something of the old determination, of the warrior in her. “Hook. I can help. I'll not go back to them. I'd rather die than go back to that tower.” 

“Killian,” he croaked. He cleared his throat and said in a firmer voice, “It's Killian.” 

“Killian, then. Get these fucking things off me.” 

“As you wish, Emma.” 

xxxx 

He could remember telling her to resist the temptation of darkness, back in their former life, yet here he was, doing exactly that. He wasn't sure if it was her own dark and furious magic having an effect on him or that her very life was in danger; whatever the cause, Killian could feel the old mantle of Captain Hook descending like a hot and heavy and _delicious_ cloak wrapped about his shoulders. At one point during the ensuinjg battle he looked over at Emma, her arms raised as she seemed to call down the very heavens or perhaps, more accurately, all the demons in hell; the clouds in the sky had turned to billowing smoke and the atmosphere fairly crackled with power. The very air smelled like fury and Emma, and he wondered that the fools sent to re-capture the errant princess did not sail back to Misthaven once they realized she was untethered, but they did not. The fear of their Queen must have competed with their fear of this elemental goddess standing before the mast, her face coldly beautiful and utterly without expression as she laid waste to—well. Everything that was not Killian or the Jolly Roger. 

The last of the small fleet sent to find them had disappeared below the roiling ocean, sizzling as the flames of the remaining bits of lumber were swallowed by the now-still waters of the sea. Killian looked around in wonder, still feeling the surge of battle boiling in his veins. He realized he was sneering and when he went to swipe at his mouth with his shirtsleeve, he was somewhat surprised to see blood on his cuff. He touched his mouth and wondered if the blood were his own; somehow, he did not think so. The battle had been one-sided; the poor sods never stood a chance with Emma unleashed and unbound. 

“Killian,” she called out softly, and when he looked over to her his heart wrenched, despite the sultry fury still coursing throughout his body. He was heaving, his lungs working in overtime as he near ran over to where she was standing. 

“You all right, love?” 

“Yes. No.” She shook her head, the slightly dazed and glazed look in her eyes clearing as she looked at him. “They were right about you.” 

“They?” 

“Mm,” she hummed. “Word is, Captain Hook is incapable of going soft. That you fight as if the devil himself guides your hand and fallen angels bless your hook.” Her eyes flicked there and when he followed, he was astonished yet somehow unsurprised to see the blood of another dripping off the tip. “And I witnessed it myself. You fight as if you've got nothing to lose.” 

“I'm afraid they're wrong about that last bit,” he said. He thought maybe her magic still lingered in the air, for he felt himself being pulled toward her, his body responding to the fire that still lit her eyes. He wondered if he would have to do battle with her now that the threat of others was gone. Something inside him thrilled at the thought. He could feel all traces of despair leaving him in favor of the _life_ he saw thriving before him. He knew he should not do it, but the pull of the woman he loved enough to die for was too strong, and he was tired of fighting his feelings. He'd done that already. He reached out to cup her jaw. “There's only one thing I fear losing. It's the one thing I'd risk my life for.” 

“Yourself?” she said. Her voice sounded wry and dry but he did not think she meant it. That fire still lit in her eyes but now it was coupled with something else, something more, as if there was something adding kindling to the flame, feeding it, trying to chase the darkness away. 

“No, lass,” he murmured. He took a step closer, his body mere inches from hers. 

“Revenge?” 

“Nay.” 

“What, then?” She was whispering now, her neck tilted back so that she looked him right in the eyes. He wondered what she saw there. He rather hoped it was the truth. Instead of answering, he leaned down and closed his eyes, every nerve in his body shouting _you_ , _only you_ when his lips met hers, brushing lightly against her, seeking permission. He was entranced by her nearness, by the gentleness in her expression despite the utter havoc of a bloody battle finished only moments before. 

The moment she accepted his kiss he nearly shouted with triumph. He thought he maybe said her name with wonder just before capturing her lips with his but he did not care, for her arms were wrapping around his neck. The blood surging through him seemed to heat with their touch; perhaps it was the last vestiges of battle coursing through him, or perhaps it was her magic flowing through his body, but he suddenly felt himself wanting to take her, to feel her shudder under and around him. The rational Killian voice called out weakly somewhere in the back of his mind that it was wrong; the lovestruck, forlorn Killian said yes; Hook told him to fuck. 

He would have gone on kissing her senseless and losing all sensibility for Emma was kissing him back, only she was voracious as she surged against him, clutching at his hair and growling, actually growling with hunger. _Not like this._ He could not take her if she did not know him. He simply couldn't. Old Captain Hook taunted him; Killian did not care. He continued kissing her, however, gentling his lips, trying to show her that he wasn't some pirate hellbent on the plunder following a successful battle at sea. 

She wasn't having it. She bit his bottom lip. 

He broke the kiss, pulling his head back but not his body as she still had her arms wrapped about his neck. He licked his lip, tasting copper and traces of Emma as he regarded her with a wary eye. 

“Emma—“ 

“I know you want this, Killian,” she said, her voice quiet and strangely thrilling for the warning in it. “Why do you fight it? Do you not feel the pull?” She pressed herself to him and he nearly groaned at the contact, at the way her hips danced against his. “I can feel it. There is something about you that I...” She did not finish her thought, quickly wiping the far-away look that had entered her eyes. Then she repeated her inquiry, the one she'd been asking him for days. The one he had too many answers for. “What do you want from me?” 

_Everything_ . 

“I want you.” 

_Gods_ . 

“Right now, Killian. I need it.” 

He stood on a precipice, he knew it, trying to decide whether he could possibly tell this woman no. 

“Or is this all a game for the infamous pirate? Rescue the damsel in distress only to cast her off when she is _grateful_?” she spat before continuing. “Do you think I needed a _man_ to rescue me?” She shoved at his chest and while he recoiled at the sudden venom in her voice he also wanted to shout in her face, to tell her no, could she not see? Did she not remember him? 

“No,” he answered quietly. “You don't need anyone.” 

“Then why?” 

“Maybe I need _you_.” 

And oh, he did not think he could be surprised, not when he'd seen and done everything there was to see and do in nearly 400 years' worth of living or some semblance of it. But the way the green fire in her eyes flashed and flared with hope in that moment nearly made him stagger backward in surprise. He supposed he'd grown so accustomed to the wild thing he'd found, the woman he loved so desperately, full of the fury and sadness of a life lived with no one who cared for her, that he didn't think it possible for her to open up to him. Yet here she was, surprised to stillness at the truth of his words. She peered up at him then, really looked in his eyes, and her nostrils flared with realization. He was not prevaricating, he could tell that she saw it. 

Then a moment later she refused it, her eyes simmering back to the earlier fire, the one filled with the success of battle. Her chin lifted and she spoke, her voice hoarse and full of want. 

“Then prove it.” 

He knew he ought to walk away, to go back to his cabin and leave her to her own devices, to give her the chance to escape him. He was suddenly tired, so very tired of fighting what he wanted. They were in the middle of the ocean yet with her magic now unbound, he had no doubt she could find a way to leave him. Yet again. 

It was that thought that drove him forward and pulled her into his arms. As their lips met and she gasped in dark delight, he shoved aside his misgivings and gave in to the pull of Emma, her lips against his, her tongue impatient as it sought out his own. When she whimpered into his mouth and her hands slid down his back, he knew he could no longer fight the dark temptation she presented to him. 

He attempted to gentle his kisses but again, she would not have it. Her mouth was insistent against his and he wondered if this was always inside her, this woman with a hunger inside. Her hands were everywhere, dancing along his ribs until stopping at his hips. He felt his shirt being pulled from his pants and then her nails were pressing into his skin, hard enough to make him hiss in appreciation. 

She nipped at his lip again, not hard enough to draw blood this time, before drawing back and meeting his lust-filled gaze. “We need a bed.” He nodded, not wanting to ruin things with words that would likely reason himself out of giving in. He grabbed one of her hands that was making its way under the waistband of his pants, turning out of her embrace and stalking down the boards toward the steps leading below deck. She followed, not needing him as a guide but allowing him to lead nonetheless. In moments they were standing in his quarters, the neatness with which he kept the room a stark contrast to the conditions above board. 

He dropped her hand and turned to say something—what, he did not know, but it was no matter as her hands were already at her back. He watched with fascination as in no time at all Emma did away with her dress, it sliding down over her curves to pool at her feet. She held his gaze the entire time, a smirk sitting on her lips and her eyes that fathomless pit of unearthly fire. But inside them he saw something he never thought to see again—trust. And lust, heady and calling out to him. 

He reached out with his hand to aid her but she batted it away, continuing to shed her clothing and boots until she stood completely bare before him, her lip trembling slightly as she lifted her chin in seeming defiance. 

“I told you I always wanted to bed a pirate,” she said, and he wanted to tell her not to do that but then she was pressing her hands to his chest, her fingers slipping under the plackets of his shirt. She raked her nails through the hair there and he drew in a large breath, feeling heat fill his chest, heat that was coming from her fingers. Her magic, he realized, very hot and very much untamed. 

He allowed her to push him backward until his knees hit the edge of his bed, but when she continued to press him down he brought his hand and hook up, both circling her wrists and drawing her hands down to her sides. He leaned down and kissed her gently. He wished to show her how good they were, how good it could be. And for a moment she gave into it, her neck and body going limp as she moved her lips with his, not against. 

Tentatively he reached up and put his hand on her shoulder, nearly weeping at the feel of her soft skin below his rough palm. He moved down her arm, his fingers dipping into the curve of her elbow and tickling the skin there before moving inward, his fingers tracing along her ribs and settling on her hip. She pressed into his still-clothed form, her bare breasts brushing against the velvet of his waistcoat making her gasp into his mouth. He took that opportunity to sweep his tongue into her mouth and enjoy the taste of her, of Emma; he could feel himself becoming overwhelmed by it, by her. By the way her hips were rolling, by the way that movement seemed to move his hand up along her skin until he was cupping a full and heavy breast in his hand. When his thumb lightly brushed her nipple she cried out, and when he opened his eyes it was to see that near-savage green begging him to take her. He wanted to make the violence disappear so he gentled his touch, drawing his hand away until it was barely brushing her, worshipping her skin like he had worshipped every part of her every day since before he was rewritten and even after he'd remembered. 

“Emma,” he whispered into her mouth. 

“Killian,” she whispered back. “I—“ 

“What, love?” he murmured, moving down to her neck and brushing her cheek with his beard as he went. He kissed just below her ear and felt a tremor pass through her body and into his. He both saw and felt gooseflesh rise up and down her skin and was suddenly reminded she was quite bare and right before him, so he turned them both and laid her down on the bed with as much gentleness as he could muster. He knelt down at the side of the bed and made quick work of his shirt, very much aware of her heaving chest as she looked down at him with something like trust in her eyes. He smiled then, a real smile, but it did not have the desired affect of putting her at ease. Her eyes darkened and she shook her head, lifting to her elbows and raising her brow at him; he had not been with another woman in ages, but he knew a “get on with it” when it was bare and spread out before him. 

He wished to taste her, to take his time in savoring every moment. When they had been together before he hadn't done so, had thought he had all the time in the world, for what was Killian Jones but a man with too much time on his one hand? Had he known she was to be ripped away from him he would have done just that, teased and enjoyed, made her quiver under his mouth, run his tongue along every part of her, profaned her perfect flesh with his filthy mouth and enjoyed the sullying, knowing that she, too, would enjoy it. 

But it was not to be. She was no longer the woman he had fallen for; were he to simply spread her legs and run his tongue along the seam of her she would shudder with pleasure, he knew—but she would not come undone. She would enjoy it, and so would he, but it would not be the same. For what felt like the thousandth in a long line of regrets come and gone and still to be had, he knew he had missed out, and it was entirely due to his own hasty actions. 

Tentatively, he reached out and pressed his palm between her breasts, running his hand down the lean lines of her torso to rest on the slight curve of her belly. He got lost in his own meanderings, his mind full of the wonder of her, his eyes desperate to map out every mark, every freckle, to take his time with her. 

She did not appear to be interested in that. She huffed, startling him from his perusal of her flesh and causing him to meet the frustrated and dark fire in her eyes. 

“I thought pirates took, Captain.” 

“Maybe I'm not that kind of pirate, your highness.” 

“Oh, I think you are,” she said, and she rubbed one leg against the other, drawing her knee up until her foot rested on his chest. She pushed at him, none-too-gently, then let her leg splay out to the side and across his arm, revealing herself to him. He gulped, unable to help himself; there she was, pink and bare and very, terribly wet for him. “I saw you fighting. I saw the recklessness, the utter disregard for your own life as you cut a swath through those black knights of my mother's. You're a pirate if I ever saw one. So.” Her other leg slid up to match its mate, and she was now spread out and inviting; his for the literal taking. “Ravish me.” 

He wanted to argue with her, to make her see once again that he was hers, utterly and inexorably. But as he continued to do nothing and her impatience grew, something inside of him snapped. He wanted this and she wanted this; he was hers, forever, in any realm, in any version of their story. 

She wanted a pirate? Well, she had one. Even if she did not understand or yet see the import of it. 

“Turn over,” he told her, completely unsurprised at the menacing turn of his voice, the grit. She smirked then, a grin full of triumph and dark knowing. He did not smile in response, did not feel like smiling; the pirate was taking over, and he allowed him to do so. She flipped over quickly, her arms above her head and her hair wild and spread out haphazardly down her back and across the bed. His eyes raked over her skin, no longer cataloguing every freckle and every mark, no longer caring, knowing he would have her again and could do so at his leisure. Now he wanted to _take_. 

He put hand and hook on her hips and yanked down, her gasp filling him with dark delight as he pulled her toward him. Her legs rested over the edge of the mattress, her ass jutted up just before him, like it wanted a well-placed smack or three, and he imagined how delightful it would look all pinked up from the palm of his hand. 

“Put your feet on the floor and your hands behind your back.” He reached down to undo the lacings of his leathers. She turned and lifted her head to regard him, a slight frown furrowing her brow. “I'll not shackle you again if that's what you're thinking, princess,” he ground out, sighing with relief when his erection sprang free from its tight confines. “I prefer my women willing. But you _will_ do as I say.” Her eyes narrowed at the authority in his voice, a note of menace coloring them a particularly defiant shade of green, but she complied with petulance, her feet bracing themselves on the floor and pushing her ass up to just the right height. As she brought her arms behind her back and clasped her wrists with each hand, he reached down once again and lifted her up and toward him. He leaned down to grasp her wrists, letting out a soft gasp when his hot hard flesh brushed her thigh. Then she stood on her toes, thrusting her ass up, seeking him out, and it was all he could do to prevent himself from thrusting into her right then and there, but he wasn't a complete scoundrel. Not yet. 

He switched out hand for hook, the cool metal encircling her wrists and making her draw in a breath. He watched her back expand with the inhale and felt smug, menacing intent fill him with desire. He took one step back to regard her, bent over his bed and completely bare. Her legs were slightly spread so he took the opportunity to touch her there, clasping the back of one thigh and relishing her gasped exhale of breath. Then he shifted his fingers slightly, inching along her flesh, drawing out the anticipation. Her arousal filled his nose and called out to that dark pirate that always lay just beneath the veneer of the reformed gentleman. 

He pulled his hand away and just as he was feeling a protest form somewhere above him on the bed, he gave in to his earlier temptation and smacked her right between the thighs. 

Her legs gave out just as she cried out, but he wasn't having it. He tutted and then grinned, slapping her ass playfully. “Get back up, Emma. We musn't falter.” When she didn't move, he sneered at her trembling legs and pinched her inner thigh once, twice, a third time. “Do as I say, lass.” She murmured something unintelligible and he thought it was perhaps something sassy, something he would at once dislike and enjoy, but she complied with his demand, standing fully and, he fancied, defiantly thrusting her ass back out at him. 

Once again he clasped the back of her thigh but this time he did not dally, he moved his hand and drew his fingers along the seam of her until his palm rested along the crease between her cheeks. He started tapping his fingers then, gritting his teeth when his fingertips encountered wet arousal. He glanced up at her, at the way her wrists trembled under the hook still holding them in place, like she was squirming and trying not to move. He started increasing his pace, drumming out a quick staccato against her swollen flesh, enjoying the jerks and tremors quivering in the muscles of her legs. 

He started to feel the pull of her, feel it envelop him, feel it fill him with the need to be inside of her. As he drew his hand away she protested, and so did his body. Oh, how he wanted to do so very many things to her like this. He still wished to taste her so he gave in to that impulse, slapping her ass again but leaving his hand there, curling his fingers and rubbing her own wetness into her flesh. Still holding her wrists firmly in place he knelt down, eying the spot he'd touched and putting his mouth there. He nearly groaned at the taste of her, his mouth open wide, his teeth digging into her flesh as he savored and sucked. 

He let go and stood back up, admiring the ripple of teeth marks he'd left imprinted in her skin. He glanced up and saw she was breathing rather heavily. Good. He lined himself with her body and knocked his boots between her feet, indicating she should spread wider, which she did without hesitation. 

She stood on her toes once again and while he wanted to draw it out, to continue to tease her with light touches followed by near-punishing smacks to her flesh, he also did not wish to spend himself before he'd entered her so he did just that, leaning down until the tip of him prodded and found her warmth. He thrust in without ceremony, grunting at the wetness as she arched her back, her fingers flexing and spreading open with a spasm. He had to take a deep breath through his nose to steady himself, the feeling was so overwhelmingly familiar, of being inside of her. The way her neck arched gracefully as she tried so very hard not to move around. She didn't seem to want to give him the satisfaction. 

He would _make_ her give him satisfaction. 

He pulled back while reaching out to grasp her hip, sliding his hand down as he slid himself back in. He paused a moment, feeling her muscles fluttering wildly within, even as her body was stilled without. He grinned then, a tight curl of his lips on one side as he squeezed her ass but still did not continue thrusting. He danced his hips from side to side a bit, gritting his teeth at the tight ridges and soft angles inside her body while trying not to give her what they both wanted. 

She started murmuring or panting or gasping; he could not tell, her hair had covered her face which was just as well, he did not think he could take the cold defiance in her eyes just then or he would lose himself, so he pulled back and used the leverage of his hand holding her to slam back home, allowing the gasp to leave his lungs and squeezing his eyes shut at the pleasure. Utter _pleasure_ , this one was, this savior of his, this Emma. 

_Emma_ . 

“Emma,” he gritted out before giving in to the dance, to the thrust, to the pull of her. He held on to her ass and curved his hook arm down so as to avoid piercing her smooth flesh as he pounded away, and she gave as much as she took, seeming to give in to the pleasure as well, her hips doing their best to meet him, her legs bowing out to the sides as she tried to stay up on her toes. He could feel the coming, could feel it rippling through his thighs and his chest as the sensations and Emma moved around and through him but he bit back and tarried forth, pounding into her, his hips reckless and relentless. 

She was crying out now, her moans loud and without artifice. She was a wild thing, wanton and unthinking, completely given over to him. Good. 

“That's it, love,” he murmured, and he had to wonder at the gentle encouragement in his tone, which he could have done were he not so focused on her undoing. And she in turn did not seem to know what to do with herself as she began sobbing her pleasure, her body shuddering and pausing and clenching around him before relaxing infinitesimally and then the still, silent roar of pleasure as she gasped out, her body fully tensed as the fluttering within began. And he in turn gasped, for his hips had begun thrusting erratically and then he lost himself in her as he he was lost without her and he was falling, falling, falling against her, the roar of the ocean rolling around him as he covered her body with his. Then there was quiet blackness; he only became aware when she cried out once again, only it was not in pleasure, it was a soft gasp of pain. 

He lifted himself off of her and saw with breathless dismay that when he'd lain atop of her, his hook had pressed into her skin. There was a tiny mark there, her flesh now marred, and from his damned hook. The sight of blood on her back seemed to knock the pirate out of him. He pulled out of her and ignored all else, pressing his thumb to staunch the bleeding and embracing the loathing that filled him. He'd hurt her. He'd hurt Emma. Gods, what the fuck was he doing? 

He lifted his thumb and sucked it into his mouth, eying the small mark and looking for signs of more blood, but it seemed to be a mere pricking and nothing more. Emma lifted one of her hands and felt for it; he noticed that there were once again shackle marks around her wrists, only this time it wasn't from the evil Charmings, nor was it to protect her from her own self below the decks of his ship. This was him, Captain Hook. He'd hurt the one he loved. 

He took a step back, unsure of what to do. As he grasped for the right words he came up short; an apology wasn't enough, and he did not wish to leave so soon after their coupling, but he feared the betrayal in her eyes should she face him. All this time he'd never once allowed her blood to be spilled, yet here he was, drawing it himself because he'd given in to his own piratical impulses. What a fucking blackguard, what a scoundrel. What a _pirate_. He was worse than the lowest, basest degenerate, he was— 

“Killian?” 

His gaze snapped up to meet hers, and as he braced himself inwardly for the inevitable anger, he was nearly undone by the utter lack of it in her eyes. 

“What's wrong?” 

He could not answer her. He did not trust himself to not make a hash of it any further than he'd already done. 

“Hey, come here. That was nothing, I mean. What did I expect, asking you to be all pirate-y, right?” He was incapable of refusing her anything, so he came forward, not noticing aught amiss when she hooked her ankles behind his thighs and drew him down. He landed just above her, bracing himself on his elbows, his skin shuddering slightly at touching so much of hers. 

She wrapped her arms around him and pressed her face into his neck and he should have noticed it then, the pliancy of her embrace, the utter warmth of it. But he was too far gone in his own self-recriminations to notice that she was different until she mumbled into his neck. 

“I guess I shouldn't be surprised,” she was saying, and it took a well-placed poke of her finger in his ribs to garner a response from him. 

“What's that, love?” 

“You were always pretty good at making me feel loved, even when you were pissing me off,” she told him, and when he felt her grin into his skin, his entire body stilled. He almost couldn't believe it but when a light tickle of warm love rushed through him and he knew it wasn't simply the normal way he felt around Emma Swan but her magic, that's when it hit him. 

He lifted up on his elbows, his face a study of wanting-to-believe, but he couldn't meet her eyes just yet. She dug her heels into his ass, jolting him above her and as he moved, he finally met her eyes. 

And of course, it was her, his Emma. His disbelief nearly overshadowed his joy. 

“Emma?” he said cautiously, not wanting to ruin anything but desperately wanting at the same time. 

“Hey,” she said, and when her grin turned to a soft smile, he believed. “Thanks for coming to find me.” 

“Any time,” he said, his chuckle full of both wonderment and disbelief. 

“We have to save the day, don't we,” she sighed, bringing her hand up to brush at his wayward hair. 

“Aye, lass.” 

“Okay.” 

And they did. 

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading!


End file.
